


Make Him Eat His Words

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [5]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Adorable Spike, Badly Written, Cooking, Fluff, Italian Food, Other, Picnic, Sam Says Something Stupid, Spike Can Cook, Team Bonding, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(aka Sam says Spike can't cook and there is a picnic)<br/>“Morning,” Ed answered, and there were noises—voices, yelling—in the background that made Spike raise his eyebrow but the man continued, “How’s cooking going?”<br/>“Apparently better than whatever you’re doing over there,” Spike laughed, “I thought you said you’d keep Greg out of the kitchen.”<br/>“Hey—,” Ed answered, affronted, but his voice was full of humor, “He’s a perfectly good cook!” Somewhere, behind the team leader’s voice, was Greg’s complaining speech and Spike assumed he was on speaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Him Eat His Words

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another story? Yep! Sorry, this really didn't turn out like I was hoping, but writer's block does that to you, I suppose. This is literally just mindless cooking nonsense--I just think Spike cooking would be so cute. Anyway, I apologize if this story isn't that good, but I hope you enjoy it. Please leave feedback (feed the author with comments, they're too lazy to cook food...they just write about cooking) because you have no idea how happy it makes me!!! Have a lovely day, and have fun shipping!
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, blah blah blah, I don't make a profit from my writing. This is still my writing, so please don't repost, thank you.

Balancing the jars and contains in his arms, Spike closed the pantry door with his hip and ghosted across the kitchen with clear intention guiding his steps. There were pans and pots gathered on the kitchen island, and the window above the sink was thrown open so the curtains billowed just slightly from their caged position. His ma was watching fondly from the living room, chatting in quick Italian with his father, but Spike had his headphones in so the words were drowned out by his music.

Ingredients safely placed on the table, the brown-eyed man turned to the sink and measured out water, pouring it into a pot on the oven before cranking up the heat and organizing his materials while waiting for the water to boil.

The picnic wasn’t until three, and it was only noon but Spike had a point to prove. Sam was going to have to take back his words—that Spike, despite his Italian heritage, couldn’t cook because his mother had always done it for him. The bomb tech had flushed red with anger, storming off into the locker room whilst raving over how uneducated the blonde man was and how he was leaving them all for Babycakes.

So, with the only picnic days away, Spike had sworn to himself—in that locker room, still crimson—that he’d make Sam choke on those words. Ed and Greg hadn’t taken sides, but they were far from innocent in Spike’s mind.

Bubbles were starting to rise from the bottom of the heated pot, and Spike held a large pan with one hand as he grabbed up the lasagna noodles before setting them down on an empty area of the counter. He started layering them in the pan, about to grab the sauce, but then he saw that the water in the pan had gone to a full boil and he snatched up the pasta and let it curl to the bottom of the hot container.

Spike left the pasta to cook, and returned to layering the meat sauce and cheese over the thick sheets of lasagna noodles. Familiar footsteps moved closer, and his mother’s hands rested on his shoulder as she pecked him on the cheek and smiled at his work. Spike pulled out his headphones, placing his iPod off to the side, so he could hear her.

She told him she was going to go run some errands, and Spike wished her a safe drive and pecked her cheek back.

When she was out of his way, Spike preheated the oven and checked on the pasta—steam rising off of the water and floating up into the fans. Leaning back on the counter, Spike wiggled his toes and smiled at the ceiling—he loved cooking, had always found it calming and, in a way, it was like creating bombs. You could never be perfect, never know everything, but the only way to try and stay ahead of the rest was to put in the time and effort.

His phone rang from where it sat on the counter—away from the ingredients, but close enough to hear—and Spike padded over and smiled at the caller I.D.

“Hello?” The bomb tech answered, hopping onto the countertop and lightly swinging his legs as he craned his neck to keep an eye on the pasta.

“Morning,” Ed answered, and there were noises—voices, yelling—in the background that made Spike raise his eyebrow but the man continued, “How’s cooking going?”

“Apparently better than whatever you’re doing over there,” Spike laughed, “I thought you said you’d keep Greg _out_ of the kitchen.”

“Hey—,” Ed answered, affronted, but his voice was full of humor, “He’s a perfectly good cook!” Somewhere, behind the team leader’s voice, was Greg’s complaining speech and Spike assumed he was on speaker.

“Uh huh,” Spike giggled, hopping off the counter as the oven beeped and he went to grab the pan of lasagna, “And I’m the sniper of the team.”

Instead of voices, a ruffling came over the phone and Spike pressed the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he carefully tucked the lasagna into the oven and set the timer.

“Hey Spike,” Sam’s voice came over, and Spike was sure there was a fire alarm or something going off over on the other side of the line, “How are you doing, buddy?”

“Are you two at Ed’s?” Spike asked, “And I’m still mad at you, Samtastic.”

“We’re trying to cook, and I didn’t trust these two in a kitchen,” Ed huffed, and Spike swiftly pulled the pasta out of the pot and into a strainer before placing it in the sink and pulling out some Tupperware.

“I don’t trust anything you three make,” Spike balked, thinking of his boyfriends’ previous “cooking adventures”. “Now, stop distracting me, I need to finish cooking. And, I’m not talking to any of you until Sam apologizes for what he said.” Ed—or Greg, Spike couldn’t really tell—made a confused noise and the bomb tech rolled his eyes but explained. “He insulted my cooking abilities.”

There was the sound of someone getting hit upside the head, and a barked “OW” and Spike had to hold back his belly-deep laughs as he snatched the plate of veggies he’d diced a little bit earlier.

“I’ll see you at the picnic. I love you.”

Three sets of “I love you, too” echoed over the line and Spike ended the call before placing his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

He poured the veggies into the pasta, followed by sauce, and he mixed it while reaching over and turning off the stovetop and grabbing the cheese. It looked delicious, and Sam was going to regret what he said oh so much.

Safely placing the food into the Tupperware container, Spike checked the time on the lasagna and saw he still had quite a while before he needed to leave—and an idea popped into his head.

The Italian grabbed the flour and eggs and a mixing bowl, and set to work making the pizza crust after clearing off enough counter space.

With practiced hands, Spike kneaded and flattened the dough and placed it on the circular sheet before grabbing the toppings and placing them on with flourish.

The pizza, decked out with homemade sauce and too many types of cheeses to name, went into the still-warm oven as the aroma of Italian cuisine filled the kitchen and slowly drifted over the windowsill into the afternoon air. The lasagna, perfectly cooked, sat on an oven-mitt just next to the pasta as Spike took in the state of the kitchen. Swiftly, he washed the pots and pans and mixing bowls and other utensils and jogged down to the basement to grab a quick shower before he left.

The water poured over his body as Spike quickly washed his hair and body, then stepped out and wrapped a towel around his hips as he grabbed some jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He simply dried his hair, not bothering to try and tame the mess, and returned to the kitchen with minutes to spare on the pizza.

He grabbed a bag from near the door, placing paper plates and plastic silverware in it sloppily, and threw it over his shoulder as he piled the food up—the containers still hot—and carefully cut up the pizza and stacking the slices up in yet another basin.

“Hope this is enough,” He huffed to himself, walking out to his car with the food, “my team is made up of pigs.”

With the Italian cuisine safely in the back of his car, Spike went back and locked up the house—checking his watch and grinning. He’d make it there—most likely before everyone else—with plenty of time.

 

* * *

 

The green grass of the park was neon in the afternoon light, and Spike walked sure-footed even though his arms were full of food. Finding their usual spot, the bomb tech set the containers down and spread out the blanket he’d brought with him.

Now, he just had to wait.

Pulling the food onto the blanket, Spike leaned back and scrolled through pages on his phone—the newest information on science and technology quickly cementing in his brain. The sound of shoes on the grass made him look up and Jules was walking his way with a huge container of cookies, a bright smile on her face and she flopped onto the ground next to him and offered him the box.

“Yummy,” Spike exclaimed, taking one of the treats and shoving it in his mouth, “You make the best cookies.”

“I know,” Jules laughed, “Remember the ones Greg made?”

“They were hockey pucks!” Spike yelled, “How dare you even call those disgraces _cookies_.”

“Where’s Lou?” The woman asked, looking around, “I thought he would’ve ridden with you.”

“No,” Spike shook his head, “I talked to him about it, but he said he was going to be running a little late—something about ‘prior arrangements’.” The bomb tech shrugged, snatching another cookie and moaning. “These are so good.” He said with a full mouth, and Jules rolled her eyes.

“Well, the guys are here,” Jules pointed at the figures just coming over the hill, “you still mad at Sam?”

“Of course,” Spike said quickly, “He insulted my _heritage,_ Jules!”

“He said you couldn’t cook, Spike, not that Italian’s can’t cook.”

“I see which side you’re on,” Spike huffed, “I swear—Babycakes is the only loyal friend I have left.”

Greg set down the case of water bottles he’d brought, taking a seat next to Spike, and Ed sat next to the Sergeant—half leaning on him while reaching across to ruffle the bomb tech’s hair. He pulled out two bags of chips from the bag he’d had slung across his shoulder and threw them at Jules. She was busy talking to Lou on the phone—berating him and telling him to hurry up.

She gave him the finger, and the bald man pulled the box of cookies by her knees closer.

Sam was about to take a seat next to Spike, but the geek grabbed him by the knee and sent him falling onto his back.

“I still haven’t forgiven you,” Spike puffed, crossing his arms across his chest, and the blonde spluttered as he got up but Greg simply rolled his eyes and pushed the sniper towards Ed.

“Lou will be here in ten,” Jules said, “He’s bringing Winnie too! He said to not eat all of Spike’s food before they get there.”

“Ha!” Spike shouted, “See! Lou will always have my back,” he shot a dirty look at Sam, “unlike _some people_.”

“Let’s just dig in, okay?” Greg knocked shoulders with the shorter man, pulling the containers of Italian food closer to the middle of the blanket, “I’m hungry.”

“Well,” Sam tried to hold back his laughter, “if it makes you feel any better, Spike, I’m sure your food is better than Greg’s.”

Spike turned red with anger, ready to leap over his two lovers to kill his third, but the negotiator silenced his half-mangled rant of outrage with a kiss and pulled open the Tupperware.

“Just eat, you two.”

Ed grabbed the plates and silverware out of Spike’s bag, handing them out and quickly filling up his own platter. He shoved a forkful into his mouth, and greedily ate as Spike grinned from where he was sitting.

“It’s good,” the sniper said as he took another bite, and Jules happily ate from her plate with a smile plastered across her face.

Greg nodded his agreement, grabbing another piece of pizza and trying to swallow before he ate.

“You made all this by yourself?” The sergeant asked, already aware of the answer but Spike nodded anyway. “So, what do you think, Sam?”

The blonde could only moan, shoving the delicious food down his throat and refusing to look in Spike’s direction.

“Yeah, I thought so.” The bomb tech said with a victorious grin. He was never going to let Sam live this down.

 


End file.
